


We live on archipelagos, and that water these words what can they do

by OwlBird



Series: I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach 10,000 stars how not to dance. [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sansa learns to fly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1201258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlBird/pseuds/OwlBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is the second part of “It is not for Us to Greet Each Other, or Bid Farewell.” It chronicles Sansa's continued development into a force worth reckoning, but has jumped forward 12 years, explaining the time in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Petyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is merely the repeat of the last paragraph of "It is Not For Us to Greet Each Other, or Bid Farewell."

_twelve years later._

Her head leans against the frame of the small high window, eyes unfocused and ears drowning out the clatter of men and arms below. She idly follows a small figure riding along the highway, the black dot growing and forming into a man. As he passes through the grizzled countryside, she feels uneasy, but it is only when he reaches the gate and she hears the jingle of his horse’s reins that her heart stops. She does not need to hear his voice or see his face to know who he is and why he is here: Petyr is come for their son.


	2. Petyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now jumps back to where the last story ("It Is Not For Us to Greet Each Other, or Bid Farwell") ended, and future chapters will chronicle the time in between the end of that story, and the end of this one. Fun with time travel!

* * * * * * * * * * * *

_My Lord Baelish,_

_I send this with a raven bound for Harrenhal; although I do not know if you remain there or have continued on._

_We remain well in your absence. Lord Nestor has been somewhat ill these past few days, but we are confident he will recover. Our Lord Robert, on the other hand, is faring much better, and continues his riding lessons with Mya._

_I am also well, having been delivered of a son a moon ago. We have named him Merlyn, after his father. He is quiet, but good-natured, with blue eyes that gaze around like an owl’s. I wish his father could be here to see him and the way his manners charm all the ladies._

_Harry sends word of the march’s progress when he can, and I plan to join him soon.  The maesters counsel against it, and I wish I could have a shield companion that was sworn only to me on the journey, but how can I allow men to go into battle in my name if I am not there with them? Besides, a Stark should not be afraid of winter, despite what rumors we hear of the Wall._

_We would be grateful for any news you are able send to us._

_Yours,_

_Lady Hardyng._

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The next month passes swiftly as the preparations for her departure are finalized, but to Sansa’s frustration, Sweetrobin demands ever more of her time, reverting to the child she had met instead of a somewhat-improved boy of ten. On the afternoon he threatens to prevent her from leaving, despite all of Sansa’s usually effective murmurs and promises, Sansa admits to herself that she must act. He is her cousin, and yet, he could not; he could not be allowed to undo what she worked towards.

That same night she visits Sweetrobin’s chamber. She feeds him a poppycake dipped in ‘honey’, brushes his hair and asks him:

“Do you remember, dearest Sweetrobin, the story I told you a long time ago, when we were about to leave the Eyrie for the Gates of the Moon? About the boy lost in the forest?”

Sweetrobin scrunches up his face, thinking. “Ye-es...didn’t he end up a strong and handsome knight?”

“He did indeed, but I’m told he had to have adventures to learn how to be strong and handsome. Would you like to have an adventure too?”

“Yes - but - will it be scary? Will it be cold? I hate the cold.”

“It might be a little cold sometimes, but I’ll see to it that my Sweetrobin has enough furs and blankets to keep out even the chilliest chill. I’ll even go a little ahead of you, if you like, to make sure nothing is too dangerous. The first stop can be at Redfort, to rest a while. And think of it - all the fun adventures we’ll have! The stories people will tell of brave Lord Robert!”

Sweetrobin perks up despite the onset of sweetsleep.

“Of course, we want to make sure everything is safe and orderly while we’re gone, don’t we? That no one misbehaves?”

“Why would someone misbehave if I don’t want them to?”

“Just so, Lord Robert, but some men are sneaky and weak. If you’re gone, they may get up to no good.” Sansa unrolls a parchment and places it on his bedside. “This piece of paper here will make sure anyone who goes against the word of our Lord Robert will be justly punished. But of course, it needs your official signature.”

Sansa helps him into a mostly-seated position, and proffers him a pen. “Go ahead now, dearest. Sign it.” He manages a coherent scrawl, and she pats him on the head. “Perfect, my darling. Here’s another - tiny, mind you - slice of cake.”

He manages a few bites more before he drops the rest to the floor, wrested into the grasp of unnatural slumber. Sansa looked down at him and felt something akin to sympathy. A little boy, lost in the woods.

Sansa pulls out a stub of wax and lets it drop onto the parchment. Lifting Sweetrobin’s arm, she twists it until his ring presses into the wax. Once dry, she makes sure no wax clings to the ring, and neatly rolls the remaining items up into a small box.

That night, Sansa dreams of flying, her wings over a wide white forest. She sees wolves howling at the moon and hears their cries but flies on; she is not yet free to join them.


	3. Enda

“ _My Dearest Lady Hardyng,_

_I extend my congratulations to you and Lord Hardyng regarding the addition to your family. Merlyn is a good name, and I hope his mother will make sure he knows his father is so very proud. The untimely passing of Lord Nestor is grievous news indeed, but I am confident that Lady Royce, and yourself as reigning Protector of the Vale, will do him honor. In the absence of so many of your kin, I send Enda Mooton, the youngest son of Ser William Mooton of Maidenpool. He is young, but brave (unlike his father), and writes and reads well for a boy his age. When I told him of you, your beauty and your kindness, he begged that he might travel to the Gates to serve you, for as long as you have need of him. Enda is also well versed in the latest news from Maidenpool and its surrounds, which you may find of interest. I hope he will prove of service to you and Merlyn. I am soon to depart Harrenhal and expect much travel ahead, but I will endeavor to send you news whenever possible._

_Yours, Lord Petyr Baelish_

 

Enda Wooten arrived on a bright cold morning. His cheeks were red and static still pulled at his silky brown hair when he bowed low and offered his sword to Sansa. “My Lady Sansa. I come to pledge my life to your service. Please do me the honor of accepting it.”

She saw his eyes as he glanced upwards: hazel and mischievous and dancing...and kind. She thought of Petyr then, how he had found and chosen Enda for her, and some of her anger faded, replaced with longing for his presence and counsel. Even if all of Littlefinger’s gifts come with a price.

“Gladly, Ser Wooten, although I certainly hope pledging your life will will never have to be more than a knightly honor. Penny, would you be so good as to fetch our new knight some refreshment?” Turning to Enda, “and I would gladly arrange for more permanent living conditions as well, but I am soon to depart the Gates to join my husband on the battlefield.”

“Of course, My Lady. I will go wherever you will go. And I’ve always wanted to see the North.”

“You may see more of it than you wish, but, there is time enough for that. When you are refreshed, I would enjoy hearing news of the East.”

“With pleasure, my Lady.”

Once Sansa fed Merlyn and gently placed him in his cradle, she joined Enda and Myranda, who was robed in black and grief. It saddened Sansa to see how keenly her friend mourned her father’s passing, although a small part also felt a touch of envy; at least Randa was allowed to express her sorrow. She hoped that time and the distractions of being formalized by Sweetrobin as the Lady of the Gates of the Moon and the suitors it would surely bring would ease the pain.

After the meal of mutton and honeyed biscuits, Myranda excused herself, citing unavoidable tasks of management. But Sansa and Enda remained sitting together as the winter sunlight stretched across the hall and paled into glass. He talked about the rumor’s of Young Griff’s arrival (invasion, some called it, others liberation), his purported charm and prowess. Sansa merely lifted her eyebrows.

When the rushes and candles were lit, Sansa started up in surprise; she hadn’t realized how late it had become. The sky outside was almost black; marred by only the faintest streak of rose-grey; and she felt a rush of guilt at having left Merlyn alone with his nurse for so long.

“My goodness, Ser Wooten, I apologize for keeping you so long, especially as you must be tired from your journey.”

“No apologies needed, my Lady, and please call me Enda. Besides, is there a better way to spend a winter’s afternoon than with one so fair?” Enda grinned.

“I see the journey has made you delirious, good Ser. If you please, I will retire; my son must be fed, and must be jealous that I spent the afternoon with another man. We can discuss more on the morrow.”

Enda bowed low, and Sansa hurried to her chambers, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the tufts of black hair peeking out from the bundle of swaddling clothes, rocked by the busty nurse near the fire. True to her word, she dined in her chambers, thinking about the journey to come and her conversation with Enda while playing peek-a-boo with her son.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days before she leaves, Sansa orders copies of Sweetrobin’s signed document made and sent to the Lords Declarant, and places the original with Myranda Royce for safekeeping. Myranda raises her eyebrows and comments that perhaps this is excessive? but there is no denying the validity of the seal of the House of Arryn, conferring to the Lady Sansa Hardyng the exclusive power to treat on behalf of the Lord of the Vale and issue binding declarations as to any matter of import to its security.

One day before she leaves. Sansa summons Sweetrobin’s Maester. “The last draught of sweetsleep is on the day he travels, Maester, and then no more. Do you hear me? No matter how he cries or wails, no more.”

The day that she leaves, Sansa kisses Sweetrobin goodbye, and tells him that he will follow her in a few days, and that she will see him soon.

A separate raven flies directly to Redfort, confirming the shipment of grains, wines, fabrics, and gold, in gratitude for the fostership until further notice. As she tells Myranda, “The Arryn words are as high as honor - it’s time for our Robert to see if he can grow his wings.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Sansa’s camp of fifty or so men is sheltered against the wind by a grove of yew trees and a crofter’s abandoned homestead. Leaving Merlyn with his nurse, Sansa dons her cape and ventures outside her tent. The air is cold and sharp, the night black and blacker the further she walks from the camp fires (like her thoughts). Harry and his forces are yet only a week’s ride north, expecting her arrival. From there, she will be that much closer - so close, her heart beat painfully - to Winterfell. To home. Yet Harry would be furious she had brought Merlyn with him, into danger. He might try to send him away. And what if things went poorly in the North? Stop it, Sansa tells herself. You cannot afford doubts. Besides, wasn’t it all a game? Didn’t the part of her that feared die that day in the Eyrie, and the part that wavered at Merlyn’s birth?

“My Lady?”

Sansa turns and sees Enda, his eyes full and young.

“I apologize, my Lady, but it’s not safe to wander too far from the fire.”

“Yes, yes of course. And please, Enda, my name is Sansa.”

“Then may I ask, Lady Sansa, what is it that troubles you?”

“It’s my dreams, Enda. They grow more vivid each night. Sometimes, I am sure they are real, and I feel close to bursting, or, as if something was growing inside me, wanting to get out, but I cannot find the latch.”

“Well, then… and please forgive me if this is too forward, but perhaps you are trying to keep it in? Maybe whatever it was would be set free, if you let it.”

Sansa looks at him, until the pause grows long. Life is not a song. Life is a game. Songs and games and cages. She decides to roll the dice. “Well then.”

Her eyes glitter faintly as she draws herself up, breath misting in the dark. “Someone told me long ago that theis not a song, but they are wrong. It is. I hear it, I hear them, I hear their thousand songs, all the hawks and gulls and merlins, and I know you do too. I see how you watch them. I see them dancing in your eyes, but you blink them away, because that’s what the world tells you to do.”

Sansa hears his sharp intake of breath as she reaches out to grip his hand tightly, an elation growing in her spine, a heady thrumming in her heart.

“That’s what they told me too. I thought they clipped my wings, but I only needed to stop being afraid of falling. Be mine, Enda, and only mine, and grow wings. Grow claws, and we will tear out the eyes of our enemies, throw the players and pieces from the chessboard.”

She sighs, and Enda looks at her: hood pushed back and red hair darkly glowing, skin white as down. Then her eyes open, but he gasps again, louder: where there should be blue, he sees only milky white. A falcon shrieks and suddenly Lyanna is circling the air above. It’s like time slows: he feels his own heartbeat where Sansa has encircled his wrist, thick and thrumming and in tune with the falcon’s wingbeat. A breeze on his face. One breath, one endless dive, one long and lonesome call. Then Sansa lets go of his arm and time returns to normal speed, he hears a rapid thrum of wings, and Lyanna drops a rat at his feet. Sansa opens her eyes, and this time he sees only darkness.

She’s breathing heavily, but her voices is steady when she says: “swear to me, Enda, or leave my service.”

"My lady. I swear. Now and until the end of days, it is your song only I will hear, only you I will follow.”


	4. Emmon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this messing with historical timelines? Perhaps.

“That bitch! I’ll have her head for this - right after she’s been raped by every man in the Night’s Watch, that cunt!”

_“My Dearest Sansa,_

_“I regret that I am writing under such circumstances - I wish so very much I could send this to you at Highgarden, where you would be surrounded by flowers and songs and happiness. Gods know how you have suffered - and yet surprised us all! I wept with joy to hear you were still living, and again when we heard of the birth of your son; I longed to see you again and talk as we did in days past._

_“But Sansa - you are making yourself only enemies now. I have not seen Cersei in such a fury since our King Joffrey died (not that she needs much provoking). Nor have you won any friends among the Lannisters. Emmon Frey is, after all, their kin in name if not in spirit._

_“Sister - I am writing to beg of you: desist from this madness. I long to wrap my arms around you, but I cannot embrace an enemy, which is what you seem determined to become. Call off your forces and return to the Vale. The rest can be dealt with; our Tommen is gentle as well as wise, and I am closest in his counsel._

_“This ink feels like poison - but my dearest, you know you are leaving us with no choice if you continue. Let us have done with war and hatred, not spill blood to freeze in this cold winter._

_“I will look for your response within the fortnight. If I do not hear by then, events will be set in motion that will be out of my control._

_“Your Friend,_

_“Queen Margery”_

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The parchment scroll springs back on itself when Sansa lifts her fingers. Like one of those wooden Jack-in-the-Boxes her little brothers were so fond of, she thinks.

Sansa’s musings are interrupted by Harry, who enters the bedroom with long strides and bends down to wrap his arms around her, where she is seated in front of an age-glazed mirror.

Sansa smiles up at his reflection. “I was beginning to wonder where you had wandered off to; it is almost time to start the feast.”

He nuzzles her neck. “So soon? Don’t we have a few minutes, perhaps?”

Laughing, she swats his hand away. “There will be plenty time enough after dinner, my love.”

Harry sighs, goodnaturedly. He points to the parchment. “What’s this?”

“A note from our dear Queen, entreating us to reconsider the current course of action.”

“Ah. Well, no more than was expected. Will we respond?”

“I suppose we should, seeing as how she went to all the trouble to write. I’ll send a raven tomorrow. Now come, tell me: how do I look?”

He looks up at the mirror, and then down again to kiss her ear. “Magnificent. You are my warrior queen, and tonight, every man here will know it.” Sansa smiles, pleased.

Well they will, Harry thinks; with red hair slicked down and tied at her nape with gold and silver filigree; a wreath of the same wrapped around her like a crown and opal earrings shimmering. Her face is a construct of light and shadow: dark red lips and dark brows contrast her pale skin, and her silver gown, despite the winter chill, loops down low and tight (a rush in his loins tell him so). Her blue eyes are the only discordant color, but in the candlelight, they seem more steel than ocean anyhow.

“Then let us go, husband. The celebration awaits.” Before leaving, she presses a gentle kiss on Merlyn’s sleeping form. When his nurse comes to check on him later, she shivers and quickly rubs a napkin along his forehead; Sansa’s kiss looking more like a bloody mark.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
“To the Vale! To Lord Robert!” Harry toasts.

“To Lord Hardyng and Lady Stark!” comes the response.

The feast is in full swing, even if the portions are leaner than they were a year ago. Fires are lit in all the hearths, and what they cannot do to erase the damp, ale fills the gap. Sansa and Harry sit at the head of the table, surrounded by various Knights of the Vale to their right, and representatives from Houses Manderly, Umber, and Flint to the left, while Howland Reed is seated at a place of honor by Sansa’s side. Enda sits at the second closest table, eating heartily but drinking with care. In the middle of the rather ugly hall is a large cage. In it sits a scrawny man, gagged though not bound, glaring furiously around him at the celebrants. After most have eaten their fill and before they are too full of mead and ale, Harry signals to the guard to ungag the prisoner. The hall quietens in anticipation.

“My Lords!” begins the prisoner without much ado. “I protest this treatment! This goes against every code of ethics and honor! I am the rightful Lord of Riverrun and you cannot do this to me!” He ends on a screech, and is met with laughter.

“Then you must be the only Frey to consider honor an important virtue,” responds Harry. “For it was here in this very hall that your family violated the most sacred rights known to gods and man. It was here they slew my wife’s family, her mother, her brother, and many of her kinsman. Do you deny it?”

“That wasn’t me!” Emmon Frey insisted. “I had nothing to do with it, and this is an outrage! My wife is a Lannister, and they will be coming for me! They will rout you all out and return me back to my rightful seat!”

“I am afraid that you pin your hopes on a false premise, my lord,” says Sansa. “There is no one coming for you. But,” and her skirts rustle and she stands up and descends the dais, “you will be following.” The hall becomes so quiet the clang of her boot heels is audible as she walks to the cage. Enda follows quietly after.

“My lords. It was in this hall that the Freys, the Boltons, and the Lannisters committed acts of sin that can never be forgotten, nor forgiven. They murdered my brother, my mother, your fathers, your sons. The Green River drank up the blood of the betrayed and flowed into the ocean while false lords sprang up like weeds.

“I am tired of watching my family die, of war and fighting and death. I want to go home, just as you do.

“But now dragons light fire in the east and darkness descends in the far north. Winter is not coming, my lords, it has come. If we are to keep alive the dream of spring, we must kill the weeds that choke us. We must face the winds of winter and do what must be done.

“With the strength of my Lord Husband and the brave knights of the Vale, White Harbor and Moat Cailin have been reclaimed. We have word that Karhold has fallen, and with the help and wisdom of Lord Howland, we have taken back the Twins. Never again shall it be in the hands of a Frey, just as House Frey will be wiped from the face of history.”

A moan escapes from the cage. “W-w-what do you want? Mercy, I beg you. I had nothing to do with it.”

Sansa turns back to the cage. “Your kin and kind are waiting for you, Emmon. They long to embrace you in the hall of cravens and betrayers.”

The moan turns into a whimper.

Her big blue eyes shimmer, and she looks sorrowful. “I am only giving you what you asked for, Lord Emmon. You are the last of your kind, the last Frey. And I am returning you to your rightful seat.”

Nodding at Enda, who grabs the man’s struggling arms, she withdraws the knife sheathed at Enda's waist. Still looking directly at Emmon's watering eyes, Sansa slides the knife into his bowels (a discomfiting rubbery give, then like butter, she notes). A little unsure of what to do, she looks at Enda, who gives a quick twist with his hand. Taking the hint, she drives the blade upwards then down. When she pulls the knife out, part of Emmon’s guts follow. Groaning, he slumps down, a dead weight in Enda’s arms.

The hall is completely silent. Sansa looks up at Harry, who is staring down at her with a vaguely horrified expression.

You must do this, she tells herself. Remember - you will fly away from all this one day. Fly far away.

“Winter is bringing a cold wind, but it is not one of revenge. It is one of justice,” her voices rises, regaining strength. “We are only human, and only the Gods know our futures. But even if we cannot always choose when to greet each other, or bid farewell, we have a choice whether to live for truth, for justice, for what is right. You are men of the North, of the Vale, of Riverrun. And we will never give up until justice is served! Until our fathers and brothers and sons and mothers can rest in the halls of their kin!”

A roar emerges at that, a roar that echoes through the castle, that makes Merlyn mumble in his sleep and the ravens quork in their cages.

“Toss him into the river,” she tells Enda before returning to her seat.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“My love, my love,” moans Sansa, undulating atop Harry’s chest as the dampening fire glows blue and red, casting colors on the empty bottle of Arbor Gold. “Never leave me, my love. I need you.”

His response is an unintelligible murmur as he grasps her hips and pushes up. Even when he opens his eyes, it’s hard to focus (the late hour, or the ale, or something else). All he sees is a red-gold nimbus framing a perfect body. Full breasts, rounded waist, hips made to grip and embrace. Sansa smiles down at him and he drowns in it, lets himself drown and be swept away into whatever terrible thing his wife is becoming (always was?). Just as long as he has a sword, and soldiers to ride into battle with, and his son, and she smiles at him like that as she rides him into ecstasy.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In the next room, the faint ring of steel sings as Enda sharpens his sword, again and again.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
The next day, true to her word, Sansa writes to Margery, and expresses her dismay at the very unfortunate drowning of Emmon Frey.

* * * * * * * * * * * *


	5. Lady Stoneheart

* * * * * * * * * * * *

_“The deed is done. Whether she understood what I told her of you is unclear. Regardless, I consider my vows fulfilled and plan to return to King’s Landing - one more time._

_J”_

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sansa walks to the window and looks outside. The Green River rushes below her tower at The Twins, through a landscape streaked with white and brown, and down to the Bay of Crabs. She feels a terrible cold ache expand through her chest, painful and deadening at the same time. Whether it’s a grief too deep or a further collapse of whomever she used to be, that too is unclear to Sansa. 

Enda is there at her side, though she didn’t hear him enter the room. 

“She’s at peace now, my Lady.”

Sansa says nothing; there’s nothing for her to say.

“The Freys that are left aren’t worth mentioning - you helped her find her justice. As you agreed with the Brotherhood; they would capture Emmon Frey and you would kill him publicly. They would receive amnesty and shelter, you would protect them. It is done.”

Soft and strangled: “I don’t think I can ever go back, Enda. I always believed it, some part, some hidden part, but now (deep breath, calm yourself) -- it’s too late for us, for this generation. It’s like a cloud came in and just ate our past.”

“But not the next, Sansa. There’s still meat on the bones of children’s hopes. It’s not too late for them.”

And again, there’s nothing for Sansa to say, so Enda walks behind her and gently wraps himself at her back. She sighs, and closes her eyes, and when he feels her body relax slightly he knows she’s gone, into the sky, into the birds, her wings carrying her to the ground where dirt has been cut from the hard earth and formed into gentle heap. Lyanna settles her feathers and perches on the mound for a long time, staring at it with unblinking golden eyes, until dusk emerges. Then she screeches, and flaps her wings, and flies north, never looking back.


	6. The Crannogman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprising revelation tells Sansa something about her position as a Stark.

The tent flaps part and a soldier bearing the Arryn crest bows and hands her a slip of parchment. It’s unsigned, but she recognizes the handwriting. 

**_“The sun rises again, and we look now the east. Would that we too had wings.”_ **

Sansa burns the letter after reading, small smile in place. It is the confirmation of one of the outcomes they had planned for. Well, Sansa concedes, what she believes they have been planning; Petyr is incapable of not weaving in a few twists he keeps only to himself. As long as she and he remain the dominant pattern, his machinations do not unduly disturb her.

Truth be told she doesn’t really mind the idea of seducing Aegon; she’s completed many tasks far less pleasant. Oh, arranging it won’t be difficult. Harry is concerned enough as it is that she’s too close to the battlefield; convincing him that she wants to return with Merlyn to the safety of the Vale will be a piece of lemoncake. And then...why, rumours are as plentiful as snowflakes these days; a few missives from Sansa herself will assure him all is well. 

She mentally plans her wardrobe during the dinner and has just about carefully folded the last silken tunic into her imaginary trunk when Howland Reed, a constant presence since they approached the Twins asks: “Lady Sansa, might I have a word?”

“Of course, Howland. Please.” Sansa motions for him to talk.

“If I may, I would prefer a word in private.”

Sansa raises a playful eyebrow at Howland, then at Harry, who grins. “Oh. Well, certainly.” Her skirts swish as she extends her arm. “Will you escort me to my rooms, then, Ser Reed? Harry dearest, I will see you in our rooms later, unless the wineskin claims you first!” 

She walks with the small man, in silence except for the steady beat of her boots and the whispering of Howland’s felt soles, until they reach the rooms she adopted as her solar. After seating themselves in front of the fire and dismissing her maid, Sansa pours herself a glass of wine, and when Howland declines one of his own, smiles and says, “and I may I now inquire into the matter you wished to discuss?”

His hazel eyes are calm when he looks at her, but oddly compelling. Sansa wonders why she never noticed how they contain flecks of green and grey and silver, that they draw you in as if deeper into the woods. And it was out of the woods he appeared without warning when Harry’s army crept through the boglands surrounding the Twins guided by trails woven into the tapestries Petyr had had Cersei unknowingly deliver. One moment, there was nothing but oppressively close greenery, vines draped over long-dead trees, sucking moisture from the damp ground below. Then, they found themselves ringed within a band of crannogmen, Howland’s spear the only thing marking him as man instead of sprite. But he fought with impressively fierceness - and humanness - at the banks of the Green River, and had proven invaluable in strategizing their force’s next steps. So when Howland asked to speak with her, Sansa knew to respect the request.

“I fought with your father during Robert’s Rebellion, as you know.”

“Yes - he always spoke very highly of you.”

“And I was with him that day, beneath the Tower of Joy.”

“I’m afraid there I confess ignorance - our father never talked about it to us.”

“No,” Howland concurs. “Because what words were there to use? None - only sorrow.”

Sansa feels a tendril of unease unfold in her stomach.

“When it was over, Ned went to look for his sister. I waited outside, staring at that hot flat countryside, so different than my own. He found her: dying in the birthing room, alone.” 

That tendril of Sansa’s unease shoots up into a full-blown plant. “In a bed of blood,” she whispers.

“Perhaps Rhaeger thought he was fulfilling a duty or following prophecy, but it was Lyanna who died delivering his child. A son. I was Ned’s friend, but Lyanna was mine also. She was,” here Howland’s voice wavers - a quietly violent grief - “like the woods, wild and free. Never more so when she was laughing. 

“I took the child away to the nearest village to find a wetnurse for him, and met Ned again on the Road north. We did not speak on it again, because Lyanna made him promise.

“The crows told me he died on the Wall, betrayed. But I found today that is not so. Which is why I wanted to speak with you.” Howland draws a parchment from his cloak sewn of fur and feathers and unrolls it, but does not hand it to Sansa.

“What is that?” Sansa asks with shaky voice. “What do you have?”

“It’s Robb Stark’s will,” Howland says simply. 

“And what does it say?” Sansa feels her heart hammering in her chest, needing to know its contents far more desperately than how it found its way into Howland’s hands.

“It legitimizes Jon Snow as Jon Stark, and recognizes him - not you - as Robb Stark’s heir.”

As Howland speaks, Sansa feels something inside her strike loose from its bindings, and out flows a buzzing liquid, into her blood, arms and legs and brain. Maybe once it would have been tears or sorrow, but now, instead, it was rage.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

After all she has suffered, all she has _endured_ : Robb did not trade her for Jaime; Jon had not written her; Arya ran away, even Lady was murdered. They have all left her, passed her over. She was nothing to them; a stupid silly afterthought. Even Howland, wise and quiet Howland with eyes like mossy pools, didn’t think her worthy. Yet hasn’t she done what they did not? Hasn’t she survived, borne beatings and sly jokes and the loss of hope, only to rise again? Has she not brought the Vale and the North and the Riverlands to union? Has she not been the only one to grant the final mercy to her own mother? 

And what of Merlyn? Where would his future be now, if he could not claim a place in the Vale or in Winterfell? Hurriedly Sansa scans the possibilities, but just as quickly turns back to Howland (must make sure he does not suspect her feelings).

“So you let me lead men into battle, have them die, for land to which I no longer have a claim?”

“I did not force you to do so, Lady Stark.”

“I...yes, of course, Lord Howland. My apologies. Just that I confess your news is a...significant surprise, and perhaps too much for me to process at this moment. May we talk again on the morrow, when I have had time to collect my thoughts?”

“If that is what you wish.”

“Thank you. And I would be very grateful if you would keep this news between us until then? In these unsteady times, I am anxious to ensure we do not inject more chaos than necessary.”

“As you wish, Lady Hardyng. I bid you good night.” Howland rises fluidly and leaves with a gentle bow. 

After the door closes, Sansa looks down at her hands and realizes her hands were clenched so tightly her fingernails had drawn half-moon patterns of blood on them. She never wished for Petyr’s counsel so much as now, but, of course, he could never know of this. (She won’t admit it to herself, but Sansa worries he would abandon her if he knew how she was now devalued). Not to mention Aegon: no would-be conqueror would waste time on a lady heir to nothing, precious to no one. A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up. What accursed star was she born under - or did the Gods just hate all women?

Stop it, she spits at herself. You must be strong, and think of your son, his legacy. Porcelain, ivory, steel. Sansa paces the room, tucking in and plucking out various threads into various patterns in her mind. She could perhaps steal and destroy the will - but what if that went wrong? Nothing so guilty as being caught tossing documents into the fire. Besides, she doubted Howland would leave it lying carelessly around. She could simply go on as if it didn’t exist, or point out that, for all intents and purposes, she was still the only Stark south of the wall. But the loyalties of bannermen were not known to ironclad. Now, if Sweetrobin were taken ill...

If, if, if.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry is a little miffed when Sansa responds to his inquiry about Howland with a curt ‘he wanted to talk about family’ and more than a little quite piqued when his following overtures to join him in bed are unceremoniously rebuffed (what, did she think he’s too thick to appreciate politics? And so what if he had put on a little weight? Doesn’t he need a bit of extra since, as his wife’s family motto keeps insisting, winter is coming?), but when Sansa murmurs something about ‘making it up to him,’ he’s mollified (and drunk) enough to stumble into the adjoining room, pull of his boots and trousers, find his way under the down covers, and fall asleep imagining what that might entail.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In the solar, Sansa pours herself another glass of wine. What she really needs is to talk to Jon, to explain the situation; surely he would understand and agree that it was best if he refused the right to Winterfell? He was in the Night’s Watch after all, and they were not allowed to own lands or titles. Still, a part of her insists, could she really blame him if he accepted? She knows what it is to be a bastard now, knows a little better how it must have felt for him all these years. She’s felt shame for a long time at how she treated him, all prim and prissy. And he was a prince all that time…it was Sansa who should have bowed to Jon. What had Howland said? That Jon was thought dead, but now not? Sansa frowned. News from the Wall had all but ceased, and she should have been notified with any news. 

“What do you think, Lyanna?” Sansa mutters at her falcon in its cage while staring at the map of Westeros pinned on the wall. “Where is your son now?” The falcon gazes back, golden and unblinking. “Do we march north as the lords clamour to? Or take this victory back to the Vale and prepare for griffins and dragons as Lord Baelish desires? Or do we find a third way that pleases us?”

And why not? Sansa knows her lot is not to find peace or vindication. Isn’t that what she told Petyr? Justice and revenge are the only cards left to her, so why not play them recklessly?


	7. Enda the Knight

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It’s in the early hours of the morning when she summons Enda. He arrives, hair mussed from sleep, shirt inside out, and she feels guilty for waking him. But she trusts him as no one else. 

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you so late, Enda. Or too early, is it? But there has been an unexpected turn of events, and it requires rather immediate attention.” 

“Enda --.” Sansa stretches out her hand, her slender milk-white hand. He takes it in his warm long-fingered one. “Can I tell you a secret?” 

Sansa leans forward so that her breath warms his cheek, which colors (so sweetly, she thinks) under the contact.

“Yes, my Lady,” he returns, slightly hoarse. 

“I know you were asked - oh, not forced - requested, to look after me by Lord Baelish. To ensure to him news of my safekeeping.”

“My -- Sansa, I --,” Enda’s voice stutters. 

“No, Enda, you misunderstand me. I am not angry. I understand completely. And Lord Baelish knows I would understand. Of course. It is a very dangerous game we play, and I have no desire to play it alone.”

Sansa pulls back to look into his Enda’s eyes; his good, good-natured brown eyes. “I’m not asking you to stop. In fact, I want you to keep assuring Lord Baelish of my loyal partnership. But --” and here her voice catches ever-so-slightly even as she hates herself for it, “I ask that, if the time comes, you stay by me and Merlyn. Protect us, and if you cannot, protect him.

“Enda - winter is come, and I feel as though all good things of me are freezing. But Merlyn, Merlyn, he. He is...so precious to me, I--”

Now it is Enda’s turn to cup her face in his palms, glad to acquiesce to whatever spell she means to cast. Didn’t she know he was long lost to her? “I know how precious your son is to you. And I know how precious he is also to Lord Petyr.

“And...if the time comes, my Lady...I will make sure he is taken away to a safe a place as I can find.”

Sansa looks at him, and even she cannot tell if the threatening tears are real or part of a plan. But she _is_ grateful, and it feels like a weight has been lifted; a weight of principle she had borne for her son.

“You are a knight in a song, Enda. If we had met long ago, I would have wanted you to be the knight in _my_ song.” And then she kisses him, a tender warm kiss from a lady to a knight. Inspired, perhaps, by long ago girlish fancies, she tears a strip of cloth from her sleeve. “My favor,” she whispers, and smiles almost mischievously.

Enda tucks the fabric under his tunic, stands and bows. “I shall carry it always” he returns with a half-smile.

“Now.” Sansa rearranges herself into a straight spine, despite the late hour. “Back to business.” She hands him a piece of paper, tightly rolled, bearing the stamp of the wolf and the hawk. “Make sure Aegon receives this letter. Rather, make sure his guards catching you trying to deliver it to Lady Royce.”

“Yes, Sansa. Might I inquire as to its contents, so I know whether to protect my neck after it is delivered?”

“It suggests that my husband is...not the soldier we need him to be, and cannot assure us what otherwise could be the great victory bringing together the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands. It also hints at my disappointment that Aegon did not know of the possibility of repairing the ties between Dorne and himself.”

“I see.”

“It is the intention of Lord Petyr and myself that Aegon read this and decide to forego his attentions to the South.”

“Then - when I am so unfortunately caught - shall I be so bold as to draw his attention to my Lady’s beauty?” Enda bows again, glancing up from beneath his eyelashes. “Or my Queen’s beauty?”

Sansa laughs. “Lady will do for now.” She stands up, rearranging her skirts, “Lyanna will be with you part of the way, but come back as soon as you can, Enda. It will be lonely without you.”

Enda smiles at her, his genuineness giving Sansa strength. “I am always with you, no matter where I go. But I will endeavor to return in person before too long - no one in good conscience could leave you alone with all these fools for more than a fortnight.” He smiles again, broader this time, and kisses her hand. 

Sansa smiles at his retreating form, then is suddenly overcome by a giant yawn. Stretching, Sansa decides that she will send the latter letter later - now it is time to sleep. Considering for a moment, she decides she it is best to burn it now and rewrite it in the morning. Clean hands. Always clean hands. 

So the fire, low in the hearth, languidly consumes the parchment, until her carefully inked words are no more, no witnesses to her response:

**_Feathers fly this to you, my hands. We must fly faster, and show him we offer him the lady sun or truth of black fire. And you were right - as always. Sweet little birds cannot be allowed to fly._ **


	8. The Little Mockingbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited, and parts of the story moved to the later chapters, the better to deal with some plot points that refused to go the way I had intended! Hopefully the story will still flow...

They agree that the majority of the army will press on to White Harbor while keeping behind enough numbers to hold the Twins and Moat Cailin. Howland Reed leaves their party a week in, to return to his home of Greywater Watch. Although remaining unfailingly polite, there was something in Howland’s farewell to Sansa that leaves her uneasy. Even though she herself had made public the contents of Robb’s will, and even though she had publicly embraced Jon as her brother, his browngreengreygold eyes gazed at her as though he could see through her and read her secrets. Sansa admits she breathes easier once he turns his surefooted Garrano pony away from their pack, and disappears silently back into the trees.

That she allows herself to forget him is testament that even the best make mistakes.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Once briefly rested, the plan is to march upwards to Hornwood and Torrhen’s Square, forming a vise as they regrouped (presumably; words had been scarce) with Stannis at Winterfell. As to dealing with Stannis’ claim to the Iron Throne; she and Petyr had long ago reached agreement on what to do with that.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

So the line caravans rumble and creak on the Road - cold-made into stone - from the Twins to White Harbor. Sansa sits inside the one most richly furnished with fabrics and furs, playing pattycake with Merlyn and sparing barely a glance out the window. She never tires of looking at his face, his baby-round face with its grey owl eyes peering at everything, his black hair a bold little cap. If he looks little like his father Lord Hardyng, many point out that the Stark looks often run dark - and, well, why shouldn’t wolf blood overpower that of a falcon’s?

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“I must forbid it, Sansa! No. No - it is just too dangerous. And what if you become with child again? I -- no.” When he’s met with sullen silence, Harry tries another tack. “My dearest - surely you see why I ask? Some of the men have questioned that you even have come this far with us.”

“So you are afraid what other, lesser, men think now?” Sansa finally replies, but she doesn’t look at him, eyes instead focused on the little boy being bounced gently in her lap, who giggles.

Harry bristles at that and stands a little straighter. “No, of course not. And it’s not proper to speak of such things, Lady Hardyng.”  

She looks up at him, her blue eyes flashing at his hazel ones. “And is it proper to abandon your wife and ride off into the dark? To” -- here Sansa makes sure her voices catches a little -- “leave me and Merlyn all alone, where we - I - shall worry every day for you?”

Harry exhales, and strides towards his wife, kneeling before her. “My darling. I shall miss you too, every day.” Caught up in the romance of it, he boldly adds, “indeed, my lady, every hour I shall long for you.”

“I was told you said something similar to Lady Erenford while we were at the Twins,” retorts Sansa in a return to petulance. Harry has the grace to look ashamed, and Sansa has to tilt her auburn curtain to hide her smirk behind it.

So now it is Sansa’s turn to be reconciliatory. She hoists Merlyn out of her lap and after placing him (ever-so-carefully) on the cushions beside her, reaches out her fine-boned hands to grasp Harry’s thicker, redder, ones.

“Harry. My Harry. Forgive me. I know men are not like women, and have...other needs. And I don’t fault Lady Erenford for it - for how could anyone resist you, my strong handsome husband?” Sansa smiles a tiny, mischievous smile. Harry grins in return.

“You know you are the only one, My Lady. My only true one. I swear it.”

“I know. ” And she does. “And you are right, my love - it is better to say here with the Manderlys until you give notice that it is safe to join you in Winterfell.” And now you will be content whether I stay here, return to the Vale, or commandeer a kraaken to Essos, believing it is your idea (Sansa leaves that train of thought unspoken).

He cradles her face in his large hands and kisses her, and for a moment Sansa really does feel safe in his warmth, like a young girl being courted by a gentle suitor.

“Papa!”

They both break the kiss and turn to Merlyn in shock.

“Mama!” He repeats happily. Then:”Papa!”

Sansa looks to Harry, who is staring at (his) son with reverence; a mistiness shadows in his eyes. She looks back to Merlyn, blissfully unaware that he’s spoken his first words and what it means to his parents. Even Petyr couldn’t have timed it better, marvels Sansa.

 


	9. The Greenseer and the Little Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If reading this story chapter-by-chapter, it might make sense to re-read Chapter 8 (The Little Mockingbird), as some storylines have been moved around (although overall plot remains the same).

Sansa’s rooms at White Harbor are comfortable, but she finds herself restless. So many unknowns, so many chaotic pieces on the board. In fact, she’s pacing back and forth next to a bay window that overlooks the ocean, foam-capped and angry-green when a maid announces that Enda has arrived. Sighing a breath of relief, she smoothes her dress of moss-colored silk and tucks back an errant strand of red. 

“Enda!” Sansa strides towards him and takes his hands in hers before he’s five steps through the door. “Thank the gods you’re back. Would you like some refreshment? Tea? Ale? I can have the servants prepare some mulled wine if you’d like or --”

“My Lady!” Enda responds with a pleasantly bemused expression. “Tea will be perfect, thank you.”

After Sansa hurriedly dismisses her servant with the request, she beckons Enda to join her by the window and turns her blue and hungry eyes to him. “Please, Enda, here. Sit. Now tell me; tell me everything!”

She learns of much, and more, though not enough. Enda’s relays the news of the west and south - Euron Greyjoy ravaging of the Reach has been somewhat checked by the returned Tyrell fleet, while King’s Landing has devolved into a mess of Faith Militants and Gold Cloaks - but it is news of the east that Sansa wants. 

“And what of Aegon? The one who claims to be Targaryean? Did you find him?” 

An unhappy look crosses across Enda’s face at her question, but he answers: “Yes. He continues to gain followers, and has reached near to the Ruby Ford, which is where I was intercepted by his forces - as instructed.” 

“And?”

“The guards searched me and found the letters you wrote. I then demanded to be brought to Aegon. They did, but then, I would have been made to answer for their contents anyway.”

“Oh, Enda. I’m sorry that you had to go through that...roughness. It’s just that I couldn’t trust the task to anyone save you!” But Enda hears the undercurrent of excitement and impatience in Sansa’s voice, and wonders if she truly feels sorrow. And that makes him sad, before he forces away the feeling. She’s your lady and you’re sworn to her, not she to you, you fool. Enda swallows.

“It was nothing, my lady. In truth, I think Aegon is doing is best to keep his forces on best behavior to gain favor with the common folk. He seems to mean it. He greeted me with courtesy and apologized for his guards’ behavior.

“And he was very interested in your letters. Or rather, the person who wrote them, if you’ll forgive the implication, my lady.” (She did). “But his advisor, Lord Connington, was more wary. I heard him talking to Aegon - I can’t be sure, but I think I heard the name Arianne mentioned. I’m guessing that’s Arianne Martell - she’s heir to Dorne; the only, as Quentyn hasn’t been seen in moons, and since the attack on Trystane and Myrcella.

“I told them that I was traveling to the Eyrie to see if more men were available to join Lord Hardyng. I said that he demanded more men, despite the many that he had. He was, of course, able to realize what an empty Eyrie mean for his chances in capturing the Vale. 

“And I let it slip that you were not...well-treated in the union. That appeared to be of particular interest to Aegon. Lord Aegon.” Enda himself does not look at all pleased at the admission. 

“Good. Very good,” Sansa responds, almost feverishly. “Then it is set.”

“What is set, my lady?”

“We must return to the Vale. To attend to Sweetrobin, of course - the Redforts say he has taken a turn for the worse, and may not recover. And if we should meet Lord Aegon on the way…who knows?” Sansa whispers, almost to herself, “who knows?”

“If I may, Sansa - is that wise? It is still unclear what kind of man he is. And why risk going so close to an army still fresh and looking for a fight?”

“Oh Enda,” Sansa says, now light, almost girlish, “there’s a risk in everything. In these days, opening a door is a risk; sitting on one’s chamberpot can be deadly! Besides, you yourself said that his men didn’t harm you. And better them on our side, where we have more control. Twenty thousand, you said he had? Imagine if they went with a purpose to looting the Vale? No,” she continues in a rush, “we must play the hands we’re dealt.”

“As you say. If your ladyship will allow, now that I have reported the events of my travel, may I retire to my chambers? The journey back seems to taken its toll.”

“Of course, of course, dear Enda! I am sorry I kept you so long. Please - get some rest.” Sansa stands up and escorts him to the door, closes it, and moves to stand by the window. A final strip of sunset pushes through the clouds and lights her hair, and then it’s gone. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
After that, it all manages to go wrong. Years, miles, and a thousand tales later, Sansa still can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment that it does; but perhaps that’s because it all went wrong so fast. Or perhaps because no one ever really thinks nightmares will come to life. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Early the next day, Sansa begins to plan her return trip to the Vale, drawing up necessary lists and timelines, but it is hardly mid-morning when one of the mermen guards rat-tat-tats at her door. 

“Yes? Come in.”

The man enters, his cloak’s seashell pin glinting dully as he hands her a letter.

“Word from Torrhen’s Square, my Lady. The Maester says the raven that delivered it was sore injured. I’m also to show this to Lords Wylis and Glover after you’ve finished.” 

Sansa’s throat feels somewhat dry as she unrolls the parchment.  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
 ** _“To Lady Hardyng Stark - I write on behalf of Lord Hardyng. He went scouting north with a hundred men five days ago. He returned this morning - he and five others. They were raving about dead men. Lord Hardyng himself suffered a grievous wound to his leg. He insists we ride south as soon as he is recovered enough to ride. Under other circumstances, I would believe it is the fever that speaks, but we hear things in the woods, and I am not sure. We aim to reach Moat Cailin by the sennight._**

**_By my hand,  
Ser Donnel Waynwood _ **

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sansa returns the note to the waiting soldier, her hand trembling; he doesn’t notice that it shakes from rage.

“Thank you, Ser. Please tell Lord Wylis I would like to meet with him as soon as he is free.” 

After the door closes, Sansa stands and begins paces back and forth, unable to concentrate. How dare they? How DARE they? After all she’s done - and they’re so close and --- abruptly, she pulls her cloak from its hook, wraps it around herself, and flings open the door. “Leona!”

“Yes, milady?”

“Watch after Merlin, please. I am going to the godswood to pray.”

“Yes, milady.”

Sansa’s boots clang as the strides down the stairs and all-but-runs through various clusters of the various servants and low level courtiers. The piercingly cold air that greets her as she exits blows her back a step or two, but only when she is within the arms of the godswood that her pace finally slows, heart still wildly beating within its cage of bones. 

“What am I to do? What? Where are we to go? How?” Her questions hang in the air like damp, and in the silence Sansa moves to sit at the base of a slender heart tree, its ivory trunk partially split from its older and hoarier parent.

Sansa stares at the scene around her, smells seasalt air mingled with ancient roots and rocks, feels the wet of the snow seep into her boots, the faint rustle of Lyanna’s feathers. She sits, and stares, and feels her mind grow heavy, her eyes tired. She leans against the tree, almost caressing the cold hard bark as one arm wraps around its waist. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

She hears him. Bran. Bran! Sansa is running through the Godswood, following the whispering trees, but whatever she’s looking for is moving faster than she; always just out of sight. She turns a corner, and suddenly, she’s in a castle. She can smell ashes in the cold night air, but at the same time, she feels calmer here. Safer. In the distance she can see a huge fire burning, and what looks like a man riding a monstrous bird of ice. She walks to the window to get a closer look and screams (again): ghost men on ghost horses ride in the woods, bearing a dead army. One of the riders looks up and sees her; smiles an ice-blue smile and beckons her with an elegant ice-blue finger. 

Then he melts away and it’s Bran, sitting in a seat made of weirwood. He looks at Sansa, sadly. 

“They are come, Sister.”

“Bran! Brother, my sweet brother. I have missed you so much! Oh, Bran - I have longed for you, for our family, so long --” Sansa moves to embrace him, but can find no path for her arms amid the white roots. 

Bran does not reach for her, and says: “the Others, Sister. From beyond the Wall. They are come.” Sansa stares, uncomprehending. 

“We are scattered, Sister. Beyond the edge of the world and across the sea. But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And Little Brother has returned.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sansa wakes to a black sky and bone deep cold. Still, as the minutes tick by, she sits still. It is only at Enda’s voice, gently calling her name, that rouses.

“Here - I am here, Enda! I am coming.” Sansa gets up, stiff and slowly. The glimmer of snow and pale bark light her way to him, a solid shape against the dark. “Is it late? Is Merlyn safe?”

“Yes, my lady. And it is past midnight. Lord Wylis was worried for you.”

“But not you Enda. I imagine you were glad to be rid of your burden for a while.” Enda halts, and she corrects, “Apologies, Enda. That was wrong of me. I am just a foolish woman, tired and afraid.” 

They pass the distance to the castle courtyard in silence. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
At this hour, a different kind of silence pervades; one of sleeping men and women, of banked fires, and waiting, waiting. 

Sansa too waits, for the sun to rise, for an answer to announce itself, for her to awake and find this all a ridiculous, terrible dream. The meeting with Wylis Manderly was not a friendly one. He was angry at her delay; she at his decision to pull back their forces in light of the morning’s news. He accused her of putting Winterfell above men’s lives, and she could not deny it. Because it would mean the unraveling of so many plans, the end of contingencies; a blank map. And Petyr, the master re-planner, had not replied to her in months. Her longing for him was like an extra limb, a taste almost on the tongue.

What was she to do?  
Sansa dreams again of ice and fire, of Bran looking at her and naming her kinslayer; it hits the ground with a thud and her eyes open, to darkness. Heart still pounding, she pulls aside the bed covers and lights a candle with shaky hands. Lifting it up, she breathes a sigh of relief when she sees the little boy next to her, face smooth in sleep. Love for him grips her heart and squeezes painfully. Her boy, her Merlyn, and sometimes she feels, her last tether to anything pure. 

Moving with care, she moves to a corner of the room and sets the candle down. She places a wooden pallet on her knees and unrolls a thin skein of parchment. Dipping her quill judiciously into ink:

**_“Petyr,_ **

**_The last word I received from you spoke of Dorne. Are you there still? I write, and I am truly afraid. They say they are coming, Petyr: nightmares come to life, like the world grew tired of our violence and fashioned them to finish us. Fire seems to stop them, but oh gods Petyr. (here Sansa’s hand quivers and an ink bulb plops onto her page)_ **

**_Merlyn - he must be kept safe. Please come._ **

**_Yours, always.”_ **

As it dries, Sansa stares down at the words. Some abstract part of her admires the elegant curve of the letters she has written, the gentle arches and the undulating curves. 

Sansa has understood death in so many forms: scarred, graceful, monstrous, peaceful; yet they say this death walked in life, that this death resembled her loved (if not be-love-ed) Harry.

She glances again at the paper, at its implicit confession of plans ruined. What a beautiful world it was meant to be that never was. So, with a soft but ragged sigh, she touches a corner of the paper to the flames. It eagerly eats all her lovely words. And so, of course, Petyr never comes.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Enda?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Do you forgive me for what I am asking you to do?”

A pause, then movement; she feels arms gently wrap around her and Sansa lets herself fold against the body behind her. 

“I am yours. Until the end of days.”

Sansa shivers. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Bran telling me that Rickon is alive and near, that I must find him and bring him back to Winterfell. That the Others are real.

“If they come, Merlyn must be kept safe. You have the letters I gave you...but if the Vale is uncertain, take him across the sea.” Sansa swallows the thickness in her throat; he does not deserve silly tears. “You are...good. And still I use you. I am sorry.”

“Please sleep. I know tomorrow aims to come too soon, and I want to pretend it won’t.”

“You’re right, Enda. Good night.”

“Enda?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“You’re a good man.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In the pale hours that now count as daylight, Sansa visits the small Godswood. Merlyn is with her this time, so bundled that his already uneven footsteps are more like crooked tufts in the snow. Enda follows behind, and Lyanna the hawk settles onto one of its branches. 

Sansa bends down before the weirwood tree, glad at the wetness that soaks her knees. 

“Bran. Little brother. I know you are not little anymore...and perhaps we are not kin anymore either. It is of no matter - for me. I was lost long ago. But --”

She motions to Enda to bring Merlyn forward. 

“No matter how much or how little damned I am, Merlyn is a babe. And a Stark. A _Stark_ , do you hear me, Bran? Do you hear me, brother?” Sansa feels the strain in her voice at these words. She breathes deeply.

“Merlyn, sweetling, come to me.”

“Yes, Mama.” He waddles the few steps over.

“Merlyn, dearest, Mama needs to go away for a little while - but only a little while. And before I go, I need you to do something for Mama.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Sansa feels the lump of desperation rising in her throat. She forces it down.

“Enda and I know how special you are, Merlyn. And we want the world to know it too.” She slides a knife from her sleeve. “But sometimes to be special hurts a little. Can you be brave, my son?”

“Of course, Mama! Just like Papa.”

This time, Sansa can’t suppress the desperation; an anguished note escapes.

“Oh, my brave boy. Mama loves you so much.” She pulls the gloves off of her hands, and takes Merlyn’s little one in hers, pushing his fur-lined sleeve over his wrist. Willing herself not to shake, she slides the knife along his palm until the blood wells up. True to his word, Merlyn whimpers a little but stays still. 

“I need you to take your hand now and place it right here, right by that face carved in the tree.”

He does as he is told, and Sansa helps him hold the flat of his hand against the tree until, when he draws away, spots of blood dot the weirwood face. 

She looks at the carved red lines, fists clenched. “Do you see, Bran? Do you feel? Merlyn is a child of the winter. No matter if he is a bird, he is a wolf as well. And no matter what I am now, Stark blood still runs in his veins. He is still a Stark. 

“Wherever you are, Bran, please listen. And whatever justice or honor I have forfeit, give to him. Give him your protection. Please...Bran...brother. I do not ask for myself. I ask for him, in the dream that spring might come again.”

They wait, the three of them, staring at the unmoving tree, until Enda breaks the silence.  
“My lady - we have to go. The ship leaves in an hour.”

Sansa sighs wearily. “Yes. I know.” She rises to her feet, placing her hand on the weirwood for assistance. In that moment, though the day is ice-cold, she feels a rush of warmth on her ungloved hand. It reminds her of the hot springs at Winterfell, the smell of flowers in the glass gardens, the sun after a summer snow. All her brothers and sisters, captured in happiness: Arya in a snowball fight with Bran, Jon and Robb sparring each other with wooden swords, little Rickon happily grabbing fistfulls of Shaggydog. In Lyanna, she can feel the fierce joy of prey flushed from the heather, the freedom of circling the sky in the cold wind. Then the tree rustles, shaking Lyanna loose but shedding a leaf that flutters to fall at Merlyn’s side, who grabs it happily (as a child would). Sansa knees feel like water and she almost cries (in gratefulness or with relief, she can’t tell). She places her forehead to the carved one. “Thank you, Bran,” she whispers, and turns away. 

“You’ve been given a very special gift, Merlyn, a gift from mama’s family. Always keep it close to you. You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mama,” as he carefully tucks the five-pointed leaf into the leather pouch at his waist. He keeps it safe.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
The salt winds blow coarse on her face, but it makes her feel alive despite the hollow ache in her heart, she is grateful for that. Lyanna flies high overhead, keening a hungry cry, and a wolf howls in echo. Rickon, little brother, is close. She knows that now. And when they find each other, she will take them home.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Zbigniew Herbert titled "The Elegy of Fortinbras."
> 
> Additionally, some quotes of Petyr are lifted in their entirety from Machiavelli's works. 
> 
> Finally, the name Enda is Irish, and means "bird," or "freedom of spirit."


End file.
